Careful What You Wish For
by orchidcactus
Summary: Some things are worth wishing for, others are not.  Contains potentially triggering material, including non-consensual sexual situations.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating**: E / NC-17.

**Warnings:** Explicit, potentially triggering, non-consensual sexual content.

**Beta:** Thank you to la_baroness; mistakes remaining are all mine.

**A/N:** Based on one dialogue outcome for 'Alone'; see footnotes.

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><p><strong>Careful What You Wish For<strong>

Fenris stands, quiet and still in the shadows of his master's dining hall, watching as a succession of extravagant dishes are paraded before Danarius' guests, listening to the predictable - always predictable - conversation.

It's as predictable as is the way his muscles cramp from standing in one position too long, the way the cold from the marble floor makes his feet ache, or the way the magister seated to his master's right eyes him nervously when he steps forward to refill Danarius' glass.

"You were at the _Colossus_, today, yes?" Danarius says and gives the barest of nods; permission is granted. The Aggregio traps lamp-light, catching it and refracting through crystal as Fenris pours the wine.

'Of course," the magister pulls a piece of duck from the carcass on his plate, frowning when a globule of fat falls to his robes. The slave attending him whisks the offending bit away. "Never miss it."

Of course he didn't miss it, Fenris thinks, returning the wine to a side table; the man lived to see blood spill.

"Mm. There is a… rumor," Danarius holds the stem of his wine glass, swirling the contents, "Senator Otho's champion was… not in fighting form_._"

Fenris had heard the rumor as well; the slave quarters were filled with low half-whispers. The implication, of course, was the _gladiator_ had been drugged, effectively murdered rather than have his boon granted.

"The same rumor has reached my house as well, Lord," says another mage, her hair done in cluster of gems, the wine-reddening of her cheeks competing with the garish rouge she wears. "The senator had voiced his regret in his promise of the boon of _freedom_. "

Freedom? Fenris thinks. To do what? Die starving and disease-ridden in the streets of Minrathous? Freedom to become a whore, or a beggar, or captured by yet another slaver to be resold in a distant Tevinter city? One corner of his mouth twitches as he suppresses the urge to scowl. There is no such thing as freedom.

And now the man, the slave, had been murdered. Much good his boon would do him now.

"Yes, well. Wishing for such a boon. _Pah_," says the magister, greasy fingers pulling off another piece of duck, "be careful what you wish for."

Danarius tilts his head at that, and strangely, turns enough to glance beside him. He gives a short laugh, while looking at Fenris from the corner of one eye. It isn't the expected, predictable chortle he usually gave, one that the privileged used when demeaning the hapless creatures who had died in the _Colossus'_ sand that day, but something else entirely that makes Fenris wary.

"Ironic, isn't it?" his master says, then turns back to his dinner, laughs the acceptable laugh, and carries on the conversation with his colleague as though he'd never looked at his slave.

Unsettled, failing to discern the meaning behind Danarius' remark, Fenris looks away, lets his eyes flick around the room.

Were he a server, or one of the body slaves decorating the room, he wouldn't have dared, of course. Even drunk on another's expensive wine, magisters could sense these small disobediences, would not hesitate to lift a napkin to painted lips - as though they'd tasted something vile- and politely nod at the offender. It was only good manners to point out the failings of a rival magister's discipline.

Fenris, though… they know is here for an entirely different reason. While they might cast nervous glances at him, they wouldn't be so blatantly rude or foolish to stare at Danarius' prize possession.

He assesses the exits and windows, then the guests. He does not expect any trouble tonight, but he is very good at what he does. He has no foolish modesty about it, no misplaced sense of pride. He is a slave, after all.

When his eyes reach the head of the table, he lowers them. It wouldn't do to favor his own master with his direct appraisal.

Danarius, though, makes the faintest of sounds, as though clearing his throat.

It is not something the guests will notice, for it is far too subtle and practiced. Even the man seated nearest Danarius doesn't note the noise, lost in the burble of voices and silver clinking on plates.

Fenris hears it. But that was the intention. He lifts his eyes slowly, apprehension rolling his stomach. Once, in his first memories of serving his master, this noise had caused him panic, almost a type of fearful attack. Now, he ruthlessly quashes the feeling.

After all, he reminds himself, there is no freedom.

Danarius stares at him and his gaze is thoughtful, predatory, cheeks faintly flushed as though with wine.

This flush is what makes the feeling in Fenris' stomach twist - the feeling reminding him vaguely of being kicked in the testicles - threatens to cause him to flinch. Instead, he lowers his eyes, bows his head demurely. He wants to squeeze his eyes shut against the nausea, but he knows better, knows what's expected of him. His hair falls away from the nape of his neck as he lowers his head a bit further.

Danarius chuckles, and this time the sound is meant for the room in its entirety. Fenris hears his master's chair scrape back, the rustle of fine silk and the clink of gold bracelets as the magister stands.

"My dear, dear friends. I fear I must be a terrible host. As you all know, tomorrow I must depart from our fair city and journey to Seheron."

There is further speechmaking, of course, and the appreciative murmurs of guests as they wish his master well and file toward the door.

Fenris hears none of it. Despite the years he has spent serving Danarius, despite the knowledge that there is no use in wishing or hoping, he still struggles to accept his role. Still, standing with eyes downcast, not seeing or hearing, he has to swallow repeatedly to avoid vomiting what remains of his mid-day meal on the smooth marble of Danarius' dining hall.

The last of the guests leave, and he hears Danarius snap his fingers. No words are necessary, but his master speaks despite this. "Coming, little one?"


	2. Chapter 2

Fenris stands just inside the door to Danarius' personal chambers and waits. He knows the routine, and there is no point in resisting. Still, he struggles with himself and wishes in no small way that he could just give up, be as mindless and obedient as the other slaves who trickle into the room in his master's wake.

Danarius stands in front of the room's large stone tub, hands raised slightly as two slaves remove his clothing, pluck the bangles from his arms, the gems from his fingers. One of them - a girl with perfectly submissive composure - holds his hand and assists him into the water.

His master lowers himself with a hiss of pleasure, then looks up at the girl. He lifts a wet hand, trails it up the inside of her thigh, under the shift she wears. She lowers her eyes further, gives a soft cry. It's impossible to tell if it's pain or pleasure or both, but Danarius pulls his hand free with a snort of derision.

Fenris knows he was to watch this, as surely as he knows countless other details of his master's tastes and desires. It is his place, his role, and -despite the struggle inside- he is outwardly obedient.

Danarius waves the girl away with a curt gesture and a shake of his head. She gives a short nod and a half bow as she steps from the water.

Now his master is looking at him, though, and it's Fenris who lowers his eyes and walks towards the stone tub. When his master speaks, he doesn't falter.

"The delightful thing about you, Fenris, is you think I can't see you are nothing like her. Where she is transparent in her affection… I always wonder where yours lies, exactly."

Fenris has heard this before and it is a simple thing to see the words are meant as a test, or to bait him. He hasn't made the mistake of replying to rhetoric in a very long time. It makes no matter; he has no wish for anything beyond surviving.

"Apparently, we're waiting on your leisure tonight. Your armor?"

Of all of the indignities Danarius is sure to suffer upon him, this first is always the hardest. Although it will be in no way the most painful thing he will be subjected to, the removal of the only protection he is allowed has always felt like a sort of no return.

Naked, he stands in front of Danarius, feeling the magister's eyes travel his body. He distracts himself with thoughts of the way the room is purposely cooled, the plush texture of the rug under his bare feet. He keeps his hands at his sides, relaxed. His muscles betray none of his feelings; his face is a mask of obedience.

His master makes a small gesture, and even though Fenris immediately moves, steps onto the cold stone step at the edge of the water, he can't help the involuntary swallow of his dry throat.

"Perfect in every way," his master sighs, not missing the bob of Fenris' neck. "Do come sit with me."

He focuses on the heat of the water surrounding his calves. He lowers himself slowly, only to his thighs, kneeling between his master's outstretched legs.

"Is there a word for 'beyond perfect'?" Danarius muses, reaching to brush the back of his hand along Fenris' leg, pet the flesh on the inside of thigh. When his knuckles cross a line of lyrium, he sighs again. "All of these years together, and still so… perfect."

Fenris stares at spot just behind Danarius, a tiny chip in the stonework of the tub's wall. He feels as his master runs his hand further up, strokes a gentle finger along his limp cock.

"That will never do, will it, pet?"

The resulting flinch of displeasure Fenris gives is unexpected. It is as though he is suddenly in someone else's body, with their traitorous muscles betraying him into the slight movement. He knows his eyes have gone wide with the shock, knows he looks - for the briefest of moments, no more than a heartbeat - like the unschooled slave he once was.

Danarius is surprised too, if the way he leans back and peers up at Fenris is any indication. "Oh! That is priceless. You _are _in a mood, aren't you?"

Danarius reaches up with both hands, gently cupping Fenris' face for a moment, before sliding fingers into his hair. Fenris, still disoriented from the strange reaction to simply being touched, almost cries out when Danarius' fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him forward until they're a handbreadth apart.

Fenris can no more reach out to balance himself than he could walk in front of a mage in public; instead, Danarius is supporting his weight. His breath comes quicker; he has sense enough to know when his master is angry, doesn't begrudge himself the flash of fear that darts through his chest.

"I would prefer if you didn't act as though I was repulsive, dear boy." Then his master pushes him forward and down, forcing his head under the water's surface.

Fenris has done this before, of course. He knows, rationally, that his master will not drown such a valuable slave. Neither of these things calm him as Danarius pushes him down.

He opens his mouth as Danarius grinds his hips up. The man's cock isn't overly large, but Fenris is still off-kilter enough that he doesn't quite open his throat enough when the head strikes his gag reflex. His entire body twitches and jerks, because he needs air _now,_ and distantly, filtered through water and the sound of his own blood thrumming in his ears, he hears Danarius laugh.

The magister yanks him back up, eyes alight with an emotion that could only be called joy. Fenris closes his eyes, trying not to cough as Danarius caresses one cheek with his thumb.

"No magic is at work here. Whatever has gotten into you?" he purrs. "Take a breath, pet."

Fenris has only a second to gasp for air before he's submerged once again. This time he manages to open his throat, let his master's prick smoothly fit in place. When Danarius draws his head back he sucks with the exact pressure he knows his master wants, letting his tongue and lips play against the hardened flesh.

Then he's pushed back down again, cock once again fitting into the back of his throat. He swallows, knowing the effect it will have on his master.

Through the water, he hears Danarius moan, feels the rumble of pleasure through the man's abdomen pressing his forehead. He contracts his throat twice more, but knows he is getting close to the end of his air.

As if hearing his thought, Danarius jerks him roughly up, letting him gasp like a beached sea-creature between his master's hands. Danarius looks into his eyes, and Fenris can see that the man's eyes are wide from want. It is a small mercy his master is lacking stamina when his prick is in a slave's mouth.

"Cover your teeth," his master says. There is no other warning, but a flex in the magister's hands is enough to let him know that he needs to gasp for air before he's back underneath the surface.

He does as he's bid, opening his mouth compliantly, wrapping his lips around his teeth. He thinks -in a flicker-flash of bizarre thought- of the _gladiator_ who died of wishing for freedom, then Danarius ' hips jerk, and the magister grinds into his mouth.

Fenris knows it will be close. His master always comes before he drowns, but it's always close. He can hear his own heartbeat, loud in his ears, his lungs straining. It will be very close. When the man's thrusts into his throat grow jerky and stuttered, he knows this time will be no different, he won't be drowned today.

Hot seed strikes the back of his throat as his master grinds his pelvis against his slave's face. Fenris swallows, quickly and efficiently, knowing that this is the only way he'll be allowed to breath air again.

He's shoved aside, then, and breaches the surface of the water. Gasping, he struggles for some sort of composure, knowing exactly how much Danarius dislikes drama. His breathing grows less tortured, his heart stops feeling as though it will jump from his chest.

The water laps around him, he can hear Danarius' breathing has evened out. One of the slaves brings Danarius a glass of wine. Fenris can smell the tang of berries and sunshine, a vintage he doesn't know, a smell that contrasts so sickeningly with the taste of spunk on his tongue.

He waits, feeling his master's gaze on him, knowing he isn't done, not yet.

The water has cooled slightly around them. Fenris studies the chip in the stonework, but he still can see the movement when Danarius lowers a hand, lazy and sated, into the water. A flush of magic prickles Fenris' markings, not pleasant, but not painful. The water warms again, almost too hot against his skin.

"So, tell me, Fenris. What _has _gotten into you tonight?" Danarius asks, voice rolling over the syllables of Fenris' name like oil gone rancid and dumped into a puddle. His master waits for a moment, then reaches out, grabbing his jaw, titling his head so he cannot avoid his master's eyes. "That was a question."

"I -" he swallows, the thought of wishing and accepting one's fate darting through his mind, and decides on a lie. "I do not know, master."

"Hm," is all the answer Danarius gives, but he drops his hand back into the water. He sets his wine glass on the edge of the tub, so that its base almost touches the chip Fenris focuses on with such care. Then, his master casts another spell.

Fenris knows what the spell is; he's done this before. While removing his armor is the most difficult, and what happens when the magic strikes him is not the most painful thing to come, it is the most humiliating.

The spell is all-consuming and bitter and nothing like fine berry and sunshine wine. It fills the room like a wave of stench, clogging Fenris' pores. It strikes against his markings, and they light up as the magic courses through him. He glows, and -may he be damned for eternity - it feels like being in the Maker's own light, like heaven, like what freedom should be.

His spine arches, his head tips back. He clutches at the water, coming up empty, and can't help the half-groan, half-shout that spills from his mouth. His cock thickens, hardens. He wants to sob in humiliation at how absolutely perfect the magic feels burning into his markings, his soul.

Danarius holds him there, clutched inside of his own blue light for what feels like eternity, like not long enough. Then, as he feels himself nearing climax, the spell ends, the magic withdrawn. He slouches in the water, near collapse. He shudders slightly, eyelids squeezed together.

"Come here," Danarius' voice has a hard note as he pats the edge of the tub, but Fenris does as he's told. He crawls, weak and helpless to the stone rim, pulling himself half out of the water.

Danarius' breathing sounds labored, great heaving gasps of excitement and Fenris knows the spell has worked on Danarius as well.

This spell, this disgusting magic, wasn't intended as a simple torment for Danarius' slave, no, that effect was only a by-product of a twisted rejuvenation spell. It had been an accident -one that Danarius had crowed about as being quite fortunate- that Fenris' markings should cause him to have this reaction to it.

Fenris feels Danarius push his legs apart, he knows the humiliation that he will endure; the pain is secondary, really. He lowers his forehead to rest on the stone, tries to concentrate on the way the marble is cold, smooth, and without flaw.

Danarius doesn't notice the slight hitch in his breathing; he knows the man is oiling his cock. Then he hears the vial clink against stone, wonders vaguely if Danarius has set it next to the wine glass, the chipped stone.

He tries to relax, because only a fool would tense against this assault, but it is an easy thing to call _fool _when theory becomes reality.

Danarius presses against the backs of his thighs, parts his cheeks with clutching hands. Fenris has only a moment of warning; there's pressure against his entrance, the hardness of his master's cock, then pain shoots through him as Danarius pushes inside.

Fenris tries not to struggle, tries to will himself lax and obedient, but his muscles refuse to obey. The burning and stretching is too much, his mind screaming a thousand desperate cries of _no, no, no._

"So, so… tight," his master gasps, sliding further, slowly. It's not for the comfort of his slave, Fenris knows. Danarius revels in the pain, feeds off the struggle. Finally, the man is fully sheathed, his thighs touching Fenris', his cheek resting on Fenris' back as his master gasps for air.

Fenris has long since squeezed his eyes shut, hands clutching stone, breath coming in gasps. He knows what happens next and although he won't make a noise, he wants to.

Even though he expects it, the magic takes him by surprise, wraps around him, burns at him. His prick, gone soft from pain, grows erect again. Then Danarius pulls away, pushing back in slowly.

It hurts, of course, but the spell sustains and fills him even as Danarius drives into him. He can't help but tilt his head back and groan as the pain disappears, washed away by the same spell that he curses. Danarius twines fingers into his hair, pulling his head back further, but Fenris is past caring. He wants it to stop; he needs it to never end.

Danarius' fingers grip his hip, and Fenris knows that he'll have bruises there, too. His master pulls away once more, plunges back in, and then begins to pound into him in earnest.

This time, Fenris knows he won't outlast his master. It's a choice of drowning or not, but it's never been _his _choice.

His cock rubs the side of the tub and within another three thrusts of his masters' hips, driving him against the stone, he comes. He sobs out great anguished breaths of air in weeping protest, but still he can't help jerking his body against the tub, sloshing water as threads of his own seed strike his stomach.

Behind him, Danarius' movements have grown rough and uncoordinated, and with a rough shout, and nails biting into flesh, his master jerks in his own release.

The magic bleeds away as Danarius collapses against him. Pain returns and settles in, even as he can feel Danarius soften and slip from him.

The marble is cool against his forehead. Smooth and perfect. He concentrates on it, trying not feel the hot trail of semen leaking down his thigh, trying not to think of his own coating his stomach.

Pain, humiliation. His master is very good at what he does.

He can hear the noises that mean the girl is bathing Danarius, reading him for bed. As his master steps on the stone next to Fenris' head, he pauses. "Come to bed when you're ready," he says.

The smooth, perfect marble supports his weight, absorbs the heat of his body. Danarius will not wait long.

He takes a long pained breath, steadying himself before pushing away from the stone. His only thought is to wish for the perfect, mindless obedience that will allow him to accept his fate.


	3. Chapter 3

"Fenris? What Danarius said…" Hawke's voice is shaky with anger. Not anger towards Fenris, but anger for the corpse currently turning to ash from a well-placed fireball. "What he said…"

Fenris schools himself to stillness and turns to face Hawke. He can feel the magic rippling from the man -so careless in his rage-washing against his markings.

Hawke's eyes are almost fever-bright, but they're also so innocent, Fenris thinks. Hawke who believes dealing with the after-effects of an errant slaver or corpses a blood mage has ravaged count as having seen the worst of the world.

"Will you just talk to me?"

"It was nothing," he finally answers. "Mere words to bait me and you, as well."

"Words," Hawke replies, voice betraying a struggle between wanting to believe and his instinct to spot a liar. "You're sure."

"Of course."

"I wish you would talk to me. It might help."

Fenris can see the sincerity, the guileless determination that mixes so strangely with indignation and anger. For a moment he thinks to explain, let this man -this _mage_- he trusts and possibly cannot live without see the true shadows of his past. Then he thinks of a long ago conversation held in a marble-floored hall and reconsiders.

"Some things are worth wishing for. Others are not," he says, then, at the look of disappointment that flashes in Hawke's eyes, he touches the mage's shoulder, just once, with the tips of his gauntlets. "We should move on."

END

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><p>-o-<p>

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><p><strong>Author's Notes: <strong>

**During the quest 'Alone', Danarius says to Hawke, "Do I detect a note of jealousy? It's not surprising. The lad is rather skilled, isn't he?"**

**It is also of canonical note that a Wiki stub has David Gaider as confirming the intimate [**_**sic**_**] nature of Fenris' enslavement with Danarius. http:/ .com/wiki/DanariusTrivia **

**The kmeme prompt on which this fic is based requested m!Hawke and Fenris discussing Danarius' dialogue. I couldn't see Fenris actually talking about it, so went this route.**

**Concrit and comments always welcome.**


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